


Take A Chance On Me

by mytea



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytea/pseuds/mytea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is totally sprung and also kind of oblivious. Until he isn’t, and that’s why this fic is rated E.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take A Chance On Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely self serving fic, set in a combination of bits and pieces from different canons. So, it might be helpful to know that this is happening pretty early. Like, the league exists and space missions are a thing, but Bruce doesn't do a lot of them yet. Like, Bruce would only have Dick so far. Anyway or not, whatever man, if DC can be vague I can be vague.

Bruce is attending a party he wishes he wasn’t. A New Year’s party late in January, because getting this many superheroes together off-duty was a scheduling nightmare. Not to mention incredibly unwise, but Bruce had made his complaints known and been overridden and coerced ten-times over, so here he is.

Here he is, at one of Oliver’s many penthouse apartments, because Oliver is the only one with the means and the desire to get this many aliens and metahumans intoxicated.

Here he is, refusing Diana’s invitation to dance and trying to ignore Ted and Michael shotgunning in the corner behind a fake fern like two juvenile college students.  

Here he is, watching Mari beat Arthur at beer pong over and over while listening to the playlist from Hell blaring from the speakers.

The third time ABBA plays, Bruce throws back his drink. The fourth time, he resolves to get Oliver some help. 

Bruce has been against this same wall all night, having brief conversations with teammates who come—to be polite—and go—to have actual fun. Even Clark has given up trying to draw him into the festivities, and Bruce tells himself he’s happier that way. Bruce doesn’t need to fit in with these people, as long as he can work with them, and that’s that.

He’s considering calling for a cab when he sees Hal for the first time since the party began, breaking through the crowd. He catches Bruce’s eye and stalks right over, all flyboy swagger with an easy California smile.

Hal reaches him and nods his head toward the beer pong table, where Arthur is swapping out with Mera.

“Sad, right?” he says, “To be fair, I think he was wasted when they started.”

He says something else, but the chatter and the music is loud, so Bruce doesn’t catch it. He tilts his head in question, and Hal leans in closer. Bruce can smell his cologne, rich and earthy. He makes out papyrus and cedarwood, blended together with heavy incense. Doesn’t show his surprise when he recognizes that what Hal is wearing is Gucci and stomps down the urge to breath it in.

Hal’s breath ghosts across the shell of his ear when he murmurs, “You want to go outside?”

Bruce hesitates to agree. This is Hal Jordan, who he never gets along with. He can’t really justify going anywhere with him, nor does he understand why Hal would want to or why he came over in the first place.

Worse than that, it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Because Hal has disturbingly good hair and James-Dean perfect cheekbones and he isn’t half as annoying now as he is when he’s ruining mission plans.

“Take a Chance On Me” starts up, and Bruce feels his eye twitch. Hal must have caught it, because he chuckles, turns away like he’s confident Bruce will follow, and Bruce does. 

They make their way to the back, up the stairway, and finally out to the roof. The chill is biting, but it’s quiet and empty. Bruce feels more at home, feels good on a rooftop, even one furnished like this—with hanging string lights and brilliant white patio furniture. The tension in his shoulders eases as he lurks away from the lit area of the terrace to the edge.

“Who has a couch this huge on their roof?” Hal marvels, sinking into a heap of pillows.

Bruce runs his hand along the railing and looks out on Star City. He locates each ledge that could support a line and calculates the drop, his possible paths through the air. Two buildings north is a rooftop in shadow and a good hiding place behind a water tank. Moving down into the alley from there would throw off most aerial pursuers. Batman could disappear completely from this party in under 23 seconds, and no one would even be surprised.

But Batman isn’t here tonight.

Because Alfred insisted that even a hidden utility belt clashed with his turtleneck and blazer—that for just one night it might be nice to act _normal_ —that he would be perfectly safe in a building full of super-powered men and women.

Hal’s biceps flex as he clasps his hands behind his head, and Bruce doesn’t feel very safe at all.

“Billionaires,” Bruce answers simply. He turns away from his meticulous escape route and takes a step into the light, toward the unfamiliar territory of a couch occupied by Hal Jordan.

When he pauses at the edge of the coffee table, Hal rolls his eyes.

“Despite the usual green glow,” he scoffs, “I’m not actually radioactive.”

Bruce picks up on the cue that he’s being awkward and settles exactly four and a half socially appropriate feet away from Hal on the sofa. He wishes fleetingly that he could slip into his billionaire-playboy-Bruce-Wayne persona, who is infinitely more comfortable in situations like these, but it's unlikely Hal would be impressed. Even with five shots of whiskey dulling his edges, Bruce doubts he can pull off _that_ Bruce Wayne’s tactics on anyone who’s already met Batman.  

The silence between them stretches out long and heavy. Bruce listens to it weave through the buzzing of the fluorescents, the bass of the house music thrumming up through the floor. The crisp slide over outdoor upholstery as Hal moves a little closer. A car alarm going off approximately three blocks away.

“So, Oa,” Hal says finally, pointing up into sky, “is that way.”

Bruce leans his head back. A fair amount of stars are out, despite light pollution and the occasional wispy cloud. He finds Aldebaran easily, searches for Capella.

“Hnn,” he replies, without actually seeing what Hal—who must know these stars so much more intimately than he—is seeing. Hal moves even closer and brings his arm up so that Bruce can follow the line of it. Points to the “V” in Taurus, then to the right.

Pleiades, he could have just said, easily. Bruce would be annoyed, would snap that, obviously, he’s familiar with it, but… But now Hal’s knee is brushing his knee. Hal’s arm is resting casually on the sofa behind his shoulders. Hal’s breath is suddenly visible, mingling with Bruce’s own in the winter cold.

Hal proceeds to fill the gaps in conversation that Bruce can’t fill, tells him all about stars he’s run across on his tours of duty. Ones made up of water, of diamond, of a glittering black crystal with strange properties that Hal thinks he might like to study. Hal grins and says that Bruce could have anything on Earth, has seen the whole world. Promises he’s never seen anything like this. Promises to take him there someday—if he’d ever shut up and let him drive.

Bruce lets him talk, and Hal seems patient, content to let him listen, maybe happy enough that Bruce isn’t arguing with everything he’s saying.

And Bruce—though he’ll never admit it—is happy enough to hear the timbre of Hal’s voice, to watch his eyes get distant and his smile get wide because he’s talking about something he knows. Loves.

An icy breeze makes Hal curse, and Bruce wonders if he’ll suggest they go back inside. Feels pathetic when the thought upsets him, and worse when he can’t help but search for a way to prevent it. 

So Bruce slides to the floor and pushes open the storage box under the table. Inside is the blanket he’d expected, a bottle of Patrón Platinum, flavored lubricant, and a handful of condoms—Oliver’s seduction technique is so blatantly transparent, he nearly smiles. Bruce reaches for the blanket, but stops. Thinks.

Bruce thinks that Hal had been the one to invite him up here, who moved closer to show him a star.

Thinks about his empty bed in Gotham, and about waking up that morning to a cold, grey rain. Thinks he might be just drunk enough, that Hal’s eyes might be just soft enough.

Thinks that Hal had been flirting with him.

“Well…”Bruce starts, setting the items on the table and trying to use a little of his Bruce-Wayne voice, “all of these things will keep you warm. Which do you prefer?”

Hal laughs out loud, probably thinking about Oliver and his inevitably unimpressed dates. Falters when Bruce doesn’t break eye contact.

“You…you’re serious.” Hal looks incredulous, but Bruce notes the flush of his face and the tightness in his jaw as he swallows.

Bruce turns to face him fully, and now he’s kneeling between Hal’s legs. He takes another risk and runs the flat of his hand up Hal’s muscled thigh, wrapped tightly in faded corduroy. Looks up at Hal for an answer.

An answer that comes in the form of two hands grasping at him, clutching the base of his skull and pulling him up to take a breathy “fuck” straight from Hal’s mouth. Bruce knows he’s coming off too eager when he licks into Hal’s mouth, climbs up into Hal’s lap, but he feels long fingers kneading his ass and decides he isn’t the only one. He isn’t the only one who’s been ignoring this, fighting this since the day Hal appeared, too damn bright against Gotham black.

Hal rubs four fingers down the crease of his ass, and Bruce’s feels his dick throb. Even with clothes still between them, Bruce has to resist pushing back into Hal’s hand. Has to make an effort to master his breathing when Hal undoes his pants, reaches down the back of them to get a handful of flesh.

“God, I’ve waited so long to touch you like this,” Hal moans, leers a little as he squeezes and caresses, fondles him mercilessly. “Your ass is perfect. Anybody ever told you that?”

He has been told that, but it’s never felt so good to hear. Never felt so good to know someone had been looking.

Bruce toes off his Berluti oxfords and doesn’t mind when Hal kicks them away. Helps Hal out of his jacket before wrestling out of his own and pulling his sweater and undershirt up over his head. He doesn’t feel the cold, even though he’s undressing on a rooftop in January. He doesn’t feel the cold, because he’s undressing in Hal Jordan’s lap. 

Bruce would hate for Hal to think he’s aching for it, but he’s kind of aching for it. He’s naked sooner than he’d thought he’d be, smearing lubricant onto Hal’s fingers sooner than he thought he’d be. His self-control is in shreds, but he manages not to gasp when a slippery finger pushes inside him.

Instead he breathes, relaxes his muscles so that Hal can pump one finger in and out easily. Bruce doesn’t ask for another, but he spreads his knees the slightest distance, palms the hard bulge in Hal’s slacks.

Hal does add a second finger, and Bruce rewards him with a kiss. He nips at Hal’s bottom lip, sucks his tongue into his mouth. Neither of them seem to want to pull away, so they make out like that, with Hal’s hands playing below his waist, one hand stroking his dick distractedly, the other working his ass open.

Hal crooks his fingers, drags them slow over his prostate and Bruce feels it all the way down to his toes. He leans his forehead against Hal’s, closes his eyes and tries to find his center, because he’d rather not come from just two fingers between his legs.

Hal pulls out, rubbing just inside the rim. He waits, caressing him gently until Bruce pulls back to raise a brow at him.  

“You’re being really quiet,” Hal remarks, like Bruce isn’t glaring holes into his face.  

Bruce just keeps glaring.

And glaring.

And—

“Hnn.”

“God, wow, you _douchebag_ ,” Hal snaps, “Can you use your words for once, please?”

Bruce drops his head and gathers his will. Doesn’t force himself onto Hal’s fingers. Doesn’t punch Hal in the face.

“Is this—I mean, does it feel good?”

Bruce rubs his sweaty forehead against Hal’s clavicle and watches his own dick leak a stain onto Hal’s pants. How can Jordan be asking something this ridiculous? It’s so unbelievable, Bruce doesn’t answer, instead reaching down to slap Hal’s hand away before going for the other man’s zipper. Hal sighs.

“I got—I got it,” he mumbles, lifting his hips and pushing his pants and underwear down around his knees. The sight of Hal’s dick makes his mouth go dry, and Bruce is annoyed—but not surprised—that Hal has such a flawless dick to match his flawless bone structure. Mostly, though, he just wants it. Wants to stroke it, suck it, sink down on it. He wants and needs and craves, and he’s disgusted with himself.

Hal’s rubbing a condom foil between his thumb and forefinger, hesitating, watching Bruce with his brown eyes blown dark in the low light, and Bruce hates him so much he has to kiss him. Distracts him with teeth and tongue so he can snatch the condom and smooth it onto Hal himself.

“Are you sure this is what you wa-haaah” Hal breaks off, because Bruce has already taken hold of his dick and pressed it to his entrance, is easing himself down slow. Hal’s hands skitter across his body, dancing down his waist, stroking firm up his quads, like they don’t know where to be. Eventually they spread on his hips, catching on the groove-like scars that run up his sides. He doesn’t grip hard, doesn’t push Bruce down. Only holds him and thumbs rough tissue like he actually just wants to feel it.

Bruce rocks against him, and Hal slips inside inch by inch, deeper every time Bruce pushes back down. Bruce run’s his palms up Hal’s chest, kisses open-mouthed up his jaw, stubble harsh against his lips, so that Hal won’t see his eyelids are fluttering at the feeling of being stretched wide. 

When he’s seated fully in Hal’s lap, he exhales a shaky breath, clenches his muscles. Appreciates the length of Hal’s thick cock inside him. Hal kisses him again, long and thorough, and Bruce circles his hips until Hal moans against his lips.

When he finally pulls back, Bruce looks into Hal’s eyes as he raises up slow, holds himself there. Waits. Smirks when Hal drops his head onto the back of the sofa and groans, “Fuck you, Spooky.”

Bruce bears down and this time Hal slides in easy, slides in deep. Bruce keeps rolling his hips and soon Hal begins to meet him. Thrusts up into him again and again and makes Bruce shudder.

Bruce wraps his arms around Hal’s shoulders, buries his face in his neck and breathes in sweat and cedar. Hal folds him into an embrace, holds his body still and drives up at an angle that forces a gasp out of him. He keeps fucking him like that, ridiculously, up off the couch with a leg on the table, until Bruce throws his head back and lets out a pathetic whine.

Hal stills inside him, hips stuttering with abortive thrusts.

“Sorry, I’m—“Hal tries, panting, pressed hard up into him, unmoving, “I’m trying not to come. I mean. Damn. Thank god you don’t actually make that much noise or this would have been fucking embarrassing—”

Hal is babbling, but Bruce waits. Concentrates on the persistent pressure of Hal’s dick against his prostate and watches the stars coming in and out of focus above them.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Hal moans into his shoulder, “You’re, like, the hottest thing I’ve ever felt, ever touched.”

Bruce can sympathize, because Hal is burning him up from the inside out. He rubs his cheek against Hal’s, makes a quiet breathy sound that he hopes will communicate the sentiment, and lets himself be pushed onto his back.

Hal squeezes his thighs and grinds in deep, and Bruce feels the pleasure all throughout his spine. He’s hot and full and so, so close, but he needs more. Demands it from Hal in a low whisper, wraps a hand around his dick and his legs around Hal’s waist, forces him in hard.

Hal gets the picture, becomes a little less careful. Fucks him fast and desperate. Laces his fingers with Bruce’s and grips tight and when he chokes a wet moan into his ear, Bruce is coming.

He feels Hal’s dick twitch inside him as he (“Oh, Fuck, _Spooky_ ”) does the same. 

They catch their breath together, Hal half lying on his chest.  When he relaxes his trembling legs, Hal slips out of him, so Hal sits halfway up, pulls off the condom and ties it off, drops it somewhere and mutters about dealing with it later.

Bruce wonders, fuzzily, if next time Hal would like to forgo the condom altogether, but then catches himself. Could kick himself, really, because how does he even know there’ll be a next time? Honestly, Bruce, next time? He’s already preparing his exit strategy when Hal interrupts his thoughts.

“We need to do this in a bed,” Hal declares, drawing his index finger across an old burn—some splotches of raised, discolored skin scattered over Bruce’s heart. “Next time, I want to map every inch of you. Like the stars.”

And with that he stretches out on top of Bruce again. They’re sticky and gross and they’ll have to sneak through this party to Oliver’s bathroom somehow undetected, but if anyone can do it, Batman can. For now, Bruce will listen to Hal’s heartbeat slow and memorize the constellations he’s tracing on his skin.

Hal smiles his crooked smile into Bruce’s neck, and Bruce smiles too.

Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah! So. I never write anything, I usually just draw. This is new to me, but I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Thank you haroldhighballjordan(@tumblr) for proof-reading it for me!


End file.
